


Switching off

by Seda



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: (Also a paramedic for reasons of ficcy symmetry (as well as the obvious)), F/F, Nicole Haught is Tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:47:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29356692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seda/pseuds/Seda
Summary: Moving to a new town, starting a new job, and living an entirely new life, might, possibly, have been biting off a little bit more than Nicole Haught can chew.But - she'd met this new girl, too. So that was something.
Relationships: Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught
Comments: 23
Kudos: 54





	Switching off

**Author's Note:**

> A crappy couple of thousand words' barely-fic in which Nicole gets home and goes to sleep and, I swear to god you guys, literally nothing else happens at all. 
> 
> But that's still two thousand words more than nothing, which is where I've creatively been at recently, so. Am posting this more for me, in recognition of that, than in any expectation this'll actually be worth the all of five minutes' reading diversion it provides.
> 
> So. Enjoy, or don't, this absolute nothing of a bedtime story.

In the slumbering quiet that is the small hours of a small town, Purgatory's newest citizen fumbles her shiny new key into the scratched old lock. She pushes the door open, following the swing of the door, letting it pull her inside after it; more than happy to let her new home swallow her up and away from the world.

She still takes care to close the door quietly behind her though, mindful not to disturb her new neighbours with her comings and goings at this late hour.

Then, Nicole Haught's final act of consideration for others that day finally complete, she allows herself to lean back against the door for just one moment. Her eyes falling shut - a redundant measure maybe in the dark and nothing-to-see yet dust and blankness of her new, empty home. But it feels good. To be unseeing - but also for the first time in long hours also to be unseen. Unneeded, unjudged.

She allows herself a few seconds and a few deep breaths, before she gathers herself, and, muttering, _c'mon Haught, get with the programme_ , stirs herself to grope for the light switch, and pushes off the door.

_Jesus._ _What a day;_ Nicole thinks, as she heads, bone weary, to the kitchen. 

More accurately - what a day and a half, really. Yet another double shift, a full eighteen hours in uniform, much of it on her feet, going into it tired already, and only kept going by the ungodly mixture of too much caffeine and the constant adrenaline buzz that characterised the work.

She pulls the dangling cord in the kitchen when she gets there, and the circuit only flickers, requiring a second pull off and on before it catches in full. Crosses to the cupboards, and has a half second's blank before remembering which one holds the glasses. The glasses she'd carefully unpacked, and taken the newspaper packing from, and rinsed, and dried, and stacked up neatly side by side.

 _Not that I've actually needed to use more than one yet_ , she thinks numbly as she takes one down, and brings it to the sink. And in the lateness and her tiredness, pushes the wrong lever again, not noticing til she feels the warmth of the water pooling through the glass.

A barely there half sigh, as she tips the water away.

 _Everything's new; everything's different,_ she thinks, as she refills the glass, with cold water this time. _Everything's just that tiny little bit harder_ , a part of her adds, almost sulkily, as she sinks a long gulping draught from it, refills it again, and then heads to drift wearily off up the stairs.

In truth, she didn't really mind that there was a settling in period in her new home. She was just tired, after all.

She didn't mind either - expected in fact - the work she'd need to put in to establish herself in her new town. She'd deliberately come here for a reset, and knew full well it would take some time to really settle in to such an old fashioned, and close knit place as Purgatory seemed to be. In a way, she'd actually been excited about the challenge of that. Had, she remembers with a flush somewhere on the boundary of pride and embarrassment, actually sketched out a five step plan for how she would ensure success in the social arena too.

Nicole Haught was not the sort to lose herself in melancholy and self-pity - so despite her current gloomy mood, she forced herself to remember that she had in fact got on to step two of that plan already.

A decent starter set of people met, she was now onto the next stage, of actually starting to be on friendly terms with some of them. Particularly some of the folk at work - the guys on her crew, and the wider cast of characters she was starting to get to know in the hospital and community care worlds they moved through.

Even if some seemingly hadn't quite got used to her and her 'out of town ways' yet. She shakes her head, and smiles a little ruefully, as she heads into the bathroom, pulling down her toothbrush, toothpaste.

_'Out of town'. Right._

She'd understood what it meant when a couple of the younger guys' eyes had glazed over the moment she'd needed to make the inevitable, joking but firm point about why she was a bad target for their solicitous interests. This wasn't new to her. She recognised the shift from 'hey, new girl's in play!', to 'I've got guys to be my buddies, and I've buddies enough already, thanks'. She'd win them round, eventually.

Or, she wouldn't - in which case she was not so desperate that she'd be begging for their friendship anyway.

  
  


Spat, and rinsed, and water splashed on face. Braid pulled haphazardly apart, tugging and catching and clumsy with the lateness of the hour, down to strange kinked curls she'd worry about in the morning, but loose and free now at least. She rakes her fingers through her hair one last time, then is overtaken with a massive, whole body stretch and yawn, finally plodding the final few feet to her bedroom.

There, stripping off her uniform, the blue and green cross insignia on the shirt she'd always been so proud to pull on catches her eye.

And, of course, steers her thoughts straight through to where they were always heading.

She thought she could rely on her work, at least.

~~~

She was _good_ at her job. She had been confident of that. She'd studied hard during her training, and despite already showing a practical aptitude better than most, still stayed later than anybody else, practicing the procedures over and over til they were absolutely second nature. She'd been head and shoulders strongest in her training cohort, and then immediately impressed even the old timers on her unit in her first couple of years on the job.

She'd even heard people talk about her. _That young Nicole Haught? That pile-up, that time?_ They'd seen some who'd been in the job twenty years go pale and panic when faced with the sheer scale of the carnage that day - and then seen Nicole striding in, calm, focussed, in-control - lives undoubtedly saved that day from the sureness of her decision making, and the steadiness of her skill amongst the chaos and fear.

A mirthless twitch of the corner of her mouth - a bitter half-smile, remembering just how confident that had left her. Like it meant she could handle anything that could be thrown at her.

_'Confident', Haught? Arrogant more like. Pride comes before a fall. You know that._

Because everything was different here.

The rig was different. Old, and on its last legs, and none of the modern equipment or set-up she'd been trained on. The charts were different - only a second's delay maybe as she searched for the right spot to record drugs administered and vitals measured - but seconds longer than patients could really afford.

Her team were different. Not _bad_ , exactly. Just - proud of the crew as it was, and protective of it, too. Not at all minded to change the ways that'd worked for them for so long - and certainly not to accommodate the book-learning of some green new outsider.

She remembers how chastening it'd felt when in her first week she'd eagerly referred to the new regulations that all but outlawed double shifts - only to be met by a chorus of eyerolls, and the flat amused stare of her boss.

"We're not so much of a regulation sort of a town, Haught. Time to take the training wheels off, kid."

She's balled up her undershirt and underwear, and tosses them in the basket with perhaps a little more force than was needed. She pulls on her sleep tank, a pair of shorts up, and stares at herself, appraisingly, in the bedroom mirror. Tall, thin, some defiant strength and pride holding in the pose still - but now, a slope to the shoulders that hadn't been there before. Dark circles deepening under her eyes.

It wasn't all so new that she hadn't figured out she's being over-relied on.

Dropping her gaze from the mirror, almost reluctant to meet her own eyes, she pivots and pads over to her bed.

She'd been happy to have been called on like that, at first. Almost childishly pleased at what she'd initially taken to be trust in her abilities; eager to repay that trust with hard work and the extra mile and never saying no to anyone who asked her anything.

Weeks in, and she's wondering if she's in fact being taken for a fool. Teaching the new kid a lesson, maybe. How many double shifts in a row was this now?

She wished she'd never made that comment. 

_Don't be like that, Nicole_ , she admonishes herself, as she climbs wearily into bed. _It's just been a long day._

Because oh boy, had it been. A long day, in which all the challenges of the new had served merely as frustrating backdrop to a fine day of one thing after another. She'd been fought with, spat at; been bled on, thrown up on; and more than once clung to desperately to by frightened, sick patients. All that came with the job of course, and normally Nicole saw it all as just part of the rough and tumble of it all - different displays of the same human frailty that it was an honour as well as a challenge to face.

But instead of the easy camaraderie of the crew that should come with it, which lightened loads and sped the days, instead she'd just had more of the constant reminders that she was the outsider. She knew really they didn't mean any harm by it, was sure they weren't doing it deliberately. But today, on shift with some of the hardest nuts to crack of her new team, she'd been talked over, and talked down to; patronized, ignored. _Laughed_ at even. God. Just goddamned _disrespected_.

It'd been a long day she'd gone into already tired, a day in which she'd worked her absolute hardest, and done her absolute best, and yet problem had stacked up on problem, and then started to overlap and overrun, until she wasn't sure which of them were real and which were imagined, or how on earth she'd get her head back above the water line, from where she found herself living these days, feeling like she was only a missed breath or two away from simply drowning in it all -

\- and that's when she'd made the mistake.

Not a bad one. Not yet. But there were no good mistakes, in emergency medicine.

For the first time in a long time, the fiery self-belief that she could _do_ this, that she's got what it takes, that all her new life would take to be a success was grace and hard work and her unflagging, simple competence, is gone.

And a tired, defeated voice takes its turn in her mental monologue.

_Maybe - maybe - maybe you're actually not up to this?_

Her sensible self overrides this, at first. She won't take bullshit from herself, any more than she'll take it from anyone else. So she forces a shift in train of thought, thinks to what she can do to deal with these moods at the end of the day. Thinks of if there's something practical she can do that might lighten the oppressive silence of her empty room, these nights.

_I should get something living in here. Some plants, maybe? Cactuses look after themselves right?_

_Right, Nicole. A cactus will be lively company, I'm sure._

Whatever. She's too tired to argue with herself any more. She can worry about that tomorrow.

She's yawning, and yawning again as she sets her alarm, takes a final gulp of water, turns off the light, and climbs in under the covers.

They're a little cool, feeling almost like hotel sheets in the lack of human warmth to them. There's a hint of a shiver as she settles in, but she's always run hot, and it's not long before she's comfortable.

Besides, it just feels so so good to finally lie down, and lie still. Her exhausted limbs settling heavily and gratefully into the mattress.

She opens her eyes, unseeing, into the dark room. Closes them again.

Her mind, though.

It can be difficult for her to switch her mind off, sometimes. Running round in circles, thinking of all the things she should've done differently that day, of all the things she'd have to do tomorrow. It was difficult to turn it off, even on a normal night. And so on this night?

_I don't know if I'm up to it._

_It's all I want to be. All I've planned for, and worked for._

_If I'm not this - what's left to be at all?_

So.  
  
She thinks of her.

She thinks of the one possible answer to that question.

Nicole lets herself drift away from her worries, to think instead of the one bright spot in her trouble filled new life.

Nicole thinks of one Miss Waverly Earp.

~~~

For several nights after the day they'd first met, she'd found herself remembering and replaying their first encounter. And for those first few nights, and oftentimes since too, the simple memory of that perfect moment is enough to carry her away to sleep.

Remembering how the dust motes were the first occupants of the bar she'd seen, dancing in the sunbeams pouring through the open door around her. How she'd then seen Waverly Earp, dancing too, lost in her own world, moving unselfconsciously and perfectly in time to the music.

The pull of the start of a smile on Nicole's lips, seeing that. The bubbling up of that feeling into a bloom of sudden and unexpected protectiveness and affection when the tap suddenly sputtered and exploded into life; the feeling of that smile growing, and hearing it ring through clearly in her voice as she'd called out to make herself known. The teasing, flirting line she still can't believe were the first words she'd said to Waverly.

Many nights, that's enough.

Sometimes it's the memory of their few encounters after that. Brief moments maybe - on the surface of things as customer and barhand - but a feeling broiling away underneath that these somehow amounted to more. All those times Nicole had dropped by into Shorty's, dragging one and then another of her crew along with her, ostensibly to get to know them better, but with a fluttering hope in her heart every time she pushed through the saloon doors: _I wonder if she's working tonight...?_

And the days she was, the catch of Waverly's eye from across the bar, and a nervous smile; the drop and shy catch of eye contact again. Feeling like a secret starting, between them, somehow.

A chance passing in the passage that led down to the bathrooms; Waverly emerging from the store cupboard at the end. Nicole's own smile spreading easy and wide, and, witnessless this time, Waverly's response a less guarded, happier, maybe slightly flustered smile of hello too. Her hands fluttering round the enormous pile of paper napkins and beermats she carried in a complicated routine that said something like 'oh hi there! - and, I'm on my way this way, and you're on your way that, only I'd be stopping to chat, so I'll see you in a minute at the bar, then, maybe?'

Long moments stolen over an order of drinks to talk, and tease, and laugh. And then once, on a quiet Tuesday lunchtime on one of Nicole's rare days off, the small miracle that was a full half hour with no other customers at all, where Nicole had drunk coffee up at the bar, and Waverly had talked, and Nicole had sat and listened, rapt. Finally and reluctantly she'd pulled herself away to attend to the errands she'd come in to town for in the first place, carrying a ridiculous, almost aching lump somewhere in her chest with her.

They were only moments, maybe. But they were real interactions between the two of them. And each carried moments of connection enough to think on, and to remember, and to daydream about later.

  
  


These thoughts would sometimes help her sleep. But sometimes these were actually counterproductive to that. There was a strange excitement and nervousness to these encounters - a feeling of anticipation and of something building, however small, leading her on to wonder if there might be other such moments to come for them in future.

Maybe soon she would ask Waverly to go for an actual coffee together, with her? A planned one for once, away from Nicole's colleagues and Waverly's customers and all the curious eyes that came with that. An opportunity for Nicole to do more than joke and banter with her. She'd ask Waverly about her day - she really genuinely wanted to know. She wanted to know everything about Waverly. Curious about what made her tick, and maybe even a little bit concerned about the weight and worry she sometimes thought she saw carried on those slim shoulders.

Maybe, if she was lucky, Waverly would really answer that question. Maybe she'd do it without that guard of anxious-to-please good nature that Nicole could see underscore everything she did for others at the bar.

Maybe if they went for coffee, Waverly would ask Nicole how she was. Maybe Nicole would, in turn, answer.

  
  
Sometimes the fantasies went to other places. Started merging with the memories of her other early explorations of Purgatory.

She could imagine Waverly one day agreeing to accompany and guide her in one of her forays out of town, into the wooded foothills that rose out from the far west of town.

Nicole had been delighted when she'd discovered the pathway through the woods that climbed up and up, to emerge finally at a bluff high above the plains below. A rocky outcrop with only scraggly plants clinging on to the exposed rock and gravel, and a view of the southern sprawl of the town just about visible, if you crept with care to the edge.

 _Someone really should fence that off_ , she'd idly thought to herself, at the exact same time as admiring the unencumbered view. Sitting down gratefully on the simple bench that the town had seemingly provided at least, and taking a long drink of water.

So it was that late at night, in bed, sometimes she let herself imagine Waverly in this scene, too. Sitting next to her, quiet and contemplative too. Or maybe talking a mile a minute, in that happy way she had when her thoughts tumbled over each other in her eagerness to get them out. She's sure Waverly would love to talk Nicole through the view, point out what could be seen, what it meant, what the history and landscape was of the place Nicole had somehow rolled up to. Maybe she'd colour in enough that Purgatory might feel less like just a stopping point for a restless body, and more like a home where somebody could stay.

Maybe somewhere in there they'd catch each other's eyes - for a moment that would stretch, and hold, a fraction too long. A catch, a smile, a precipitous drop.

Maybe Waverly would swallow, and sit back, and face forward again, nervous and determined and hopeful, letting a hand drop to the seat between them, in innocence, or invitation.

Maybe, Nicole would drop her own hand down to rest next to hers, too. Just a fraction apart.

A fraction apart. An ocean. 

If she could just take her hand. If she could only hold Waverly's hand.

  
~~~  
  


She never went any further than that. She mostly didn't need to. She'd wake the next morning, and the last thing she'd remember was the calm settled feeling of the half dream, half memory. A muddled sketch of the two of them, warmed by the bright sun, and breathless from the steep climb, and the vertigo of how it would feel to be there, together; right on the edge of things.

But even when sleep failed to come - and even though it was Nicole's own fantasy - Waverly never did close that distance.

And Nicole kept to her discipline - never moved to do what she so wanted to, and take Waverly's hand in hers either. Never even began to think about the giddy possibility of turning to Waverly, and seeing her gulp her nervousness, and bring a hand to her chin, and tip Waverly's face up to hers...

She never let herself go as far as that. It felt disloyal to, somehow - they were only friends, after all. And Waverly was already in a relationship, of course. _A relationship with a man, too_ , Nicole reminded herself, with a small puff of a sigh escaping; the sound of it pulling her abruptly away from the happy thoughts of Waverly, and back into her solitary reality.

Nicole was _sure_ there had been some sort of spark between her and Waverly, when they'd first met. But maybe there's different kinds of sparks? Maybe the way that spark seemed to flicker and catch into a slow burning flame, in all those encounters later, was just what it felt like to make a true friend, in a town where as yet she had no other?

 _That'd be okay_ , Nicole thinks, genuinely. If that's how it was - if Waverly was just as straight as she'd fallen over herself to clarify she was, that day they'd first met - that'd be alright. She still seemed like a special person, and she'd still want to get to know her as friends.

 _Or maybe,_ says the small part of Nicole that she knew in truth spoke her real hopes - _maybe she isn't quite as completely straight as all that - but maybe Waverly herself doesn't know that yet?_

And of course that would be completely fine too. Nicole had been there before, too, but never rushed anyone through that. She sure as hell wouldn't start with Waverly.

She smiled, affectionately, in the dark. She can't imagine anyone persuading Waverly Earp to do anything she hadn't set her own mind to, anyway. Five foot three of pure determination that she was.

So - it felt wrong, discourteous somehow, for even these private, internal musings to take Waverly to a place she wasn't yet ready to go. So Nicole always kept it to the realistic. Kept it to the present world that she and Waverly occupied, without needing to make any assumptions.

She didn't allow herself to hope. Didn't allow herself to want for something, that just might not be possible.

  
  
But today had been such a long day. 

And she was so very tired.

  
  


Nicole rolled onto her side. Blinked at the clock radio display, a low number glowing a little hazily through the gathering sleep in her eyes. She'd need to be up again in less than six hours. She didn't know if she could.

She wasn't sure she could do any of this, any more.

Her eyes close again. And, for just this once, she lets herself off from the shackles of reality.

She let herself imagine Waverly, sitting down on the bed, just next to her. Imagined even her slight weight, dipping the mattress a little.

She let herself feel, how it would feel, were she to be this close to Waverly. Close enough to hear her breathing, feel her presence, her warmth changing the whole feel of this cold, dark, empty room, into something friendlier, more alive; filling it with promise and comfort and hope.

The intimacy of it. How it would feel, for Waverly to be with her like this. See her like this. Loose limbed, and defences dropped, aching and beaten and tired. Trusting that Waverly would see her vulnerabilities, but keep them secret, sacred. Safe.

  
  


What it would feel like if Waverly did finally reach out that nervous hand, and after a heartbeat of hesitation, rest it, warm and comforting, on Nicole's exhausted, worrying, far-too-full head. 

What it would feel like, if she then moved that touch into a slow, gentle, rhythmic caress.

How it would feel, just to fall asleep like that - with Waverly, soothing her, quiet, and soft, and with all the care in the touch that Nicole sometimes caught in her eyes -

\- with Waverly, looking over, and after her - 

\- - with Waverly - - 


End file.
